


i’ll feel what you forgot

by quichemuppet



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Demonic Possession, Demons, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Time Travel, In the Fade, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Possession, The Fade, Time Travel, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quichemuppet/pseuds/quichemuppet
Summary: “Despair and rage, desire and apathy demons all at once,” she sighs, ankles crossed as she brings her drink to her lips. “My dear, you have certainly made things difficult for yourself.”He laughs again, this time drier, and less amused. “You should inform Varric that you’ve an idea for the title of my biography.” He leans back in his chair.She stares down loftily at the sugar crystals nestled in the bottom of her cup. “Perhaps another time, darling.”





	i’ll feel what you forgot

**Author's Note:**

> i originally posted this a long time ago under a different acc but it was hacked so i deleted it :( here’s an edited repost! :D

   It is a turn of his head and another’s presence that startles him into dropping the bottle of mage-bane. But, it is also obvious to the naked eye that the realization of _whom_ exactly, is the harbinger of terror.

   Her gaze meets the shattered glass on the floor, and then trails upwards to his aghast expression. Sharp eyes soften, expression compassionate, and he knows it will be one of the few times he will ever witness it.

   Trevelyan knows she’s seen this before. The both of them have seen mages no younger than sixteen in the Circles, ailing from the effects of mage-bane. Both have watched mages vomit, and seen crystals of lyrium fall from their maws. How else were they going to expel the condensed magic in their veins that could no longer escape?

   She knows the harshness of mage-bane and the harsh realities their kind must endure. No one spoke of the "fasting period" for mages that lacked strength to fight the demon assaulting their minds every sleeping moment. “Oh, my dear,” she breathes, and this is one of the rarest times where her voice holds no hidden bite, no fake niceties. “We should have remembered that every blessing came with a darker price to pay.”

   “You think this mark is from Andraste,” he whispers. “It is not.”

   “...What either of us believe is irrelevant. You would not inform us of its’ origins unless it was important, I trust,” She counters, and bends down to inspect the rug covered in glass shards. “Seeker Pentaghast would demand even the slightest detail.”

   He reaches out to grasp another bottle, only for a neatly manicured hand to interrupt his line of sight as it rests on top of his own hand.

   “Every mage has his demon,” she tsks. The shattered glass is easily levitated upwards until it sits in a neat pile on the desk in the corner. “I can only imagine that the mark cannot keep a demon away from its enticing amount of magic.”

   His voice is hoarse, eyes staring at the box of potion bottles. “It’s.. it is more than one.”

   She blinks. “Oh?”

   “And... not similar kinds. I can’t use the usual defense tactics,” he whispers, “that they taught in the Circle.”

   She’d seen many singular demons during Harrowings (including those gone wrong) that were terrifying on their lonesome, but four at once... “Maker. You thought this was a matter best tended to alone?”

   “If word got out that the Herald was at risk and could become an abomination, that’d ruin the Inquisition, wouldn’t it?”

   She furrows her brow at him, more irritated at his insolence than anything else. “My dear, your image is more salvageable than your well-being is. You will wear yourself down to bones in the grave if you continue at this pace.” She extends a hand. “Explain what you must if you wish for my help, then.”

   He takes it, and stands again.

* * *

 

   “Despair and rage, desire and apathy demons all at once,” she sighs, ankles crossed as she brings her drink to her lips. “My dear, you have certainly made things difficult for yourself.”

   He laughs again, this time drier, and less amused. “You should inform Varric that you’ve an idea for the title of my biography.” He leans back in his chair.

   She stares down loftily at the sugar crystals nestled in the bottom of her cup. “Perhaps another time, darling.”

* * *

   The demon's loving expression makes her face twist in disgust as a hand presses to Trevelyan’s chest. Incarnadine legs drape over his lap, and she _hates_ the smooth, upward curl of its' horns. Hates what it could become, and what it would then ruin. Magic is power— she knows that what could do great good can also do great harm. She wishes it wasn’t so, and knows that it is foolish; for what is the meaning of good to a woman who has never known the existence of great evils?

   One stands before them; the last of them. “You know I could never apologize enough,” she hears it whisper. “You know this.”

   “Please stop talking,” Trevelyan pleads, eyes and fists clenched shut. She recalls that desire demons could only alter their appearance and voice in one mind at a time. The fact that she is not knowledgeable of his lover's identity must earn his gratefulness.

   “Very well,” it murmurs. “I would prefer to make it up to you regardless, vhenan.”

   She steps in before the demon can attack the young man yet another time. A violent Dispel makes the wicked thing screech as its energies flee elsewhere.

   The obvious weight on his shoulders leaves him, and she considers herself not too proud to provide a shoulder to cry on, even literally. It is difficult for their kind to afford vulnerability so often (she pretends not to notice that she has taken on almost a motherly role, in kindness).

   He weeps without sound once it is gone, chest wracked with desolate passion that Seeker Cassandra would lament over for months if its’ description ever reached one of Varric’s pages.

   As dramatic it may be to witness, she knows the grief has been shoved down deep, farther than it ever should have been. Grief never leaves a weak man when he is too fearful to build a great thing on its’ foundations. 

   She quietly allows the grief to fall from his face until it wouldn’t be surprising to see a small creek or even a pond at their feet. It is _then_ when the last of these tears land, and she suspects that it is only because the Fade has finally run out of tears for him to cry. “Do they still live,” she asks. “This… would-be lover of yours?”

   He flinches, almost as if realizing he has stepped past the own barriers he’d built around himself. He does not meet her gaze, eyes far off elsewhere.

   The tiny cabin reshapes gradually into a gorgeous ruin; a waterfall trickles behind them. She can feel the sun on her skin; it is a powerful memory of a place he has been before.

   “Yes,” he tells her, betraying her hypothesis of the Fade’s lack of tears. “I have... every reason to be angry at them. They lied to me with every breath in their lungs.” His chest tightens, and his voice hiccups, almost sounding juvenile. “But I can’t bring myself to hate them.”

   She lowers her head to glance down at him near her feet, arms wrapped around his folded legs. “And you believe that distancing yourself from them will fix the matter?”

   “...That’s the problem,” he says finally. “I see them almost every day. Walking about, minding their own business. And they don’t remember a thing. I speak with them, and I want to carve my lungs out of my chest because it hurts to breathe.”

   She’d heard of memory spells before, but this was particularly interesting. Yet she was polite enough not to pry (at least not too much). “Let us hope you will not come to that— a bit dramatic, even for my tastes. Could you not start over? Begin again?”

   He swallows. “I know them too well.”

   “It seems then you are already decided on the matter,” she sighs, standing to her feet. “I do hope you are wise enough to inform your advisers that you are an apostate.”

   His smile is weak while he changes the topic of discussion, and they both know it. “I am... very grateful for your help. I’ll repay it in any way that I can.”

   “My dear, you may regret such a bold promise.” She shakes her head.

   He manages a much more trembling grin now. It is the first genuine one to grace his face, and she tells herself that she will not treasure the memory under lock and key. “I mean it,” the Herald sighs. “I need _someone_ around here to hold me accountable. And,” he adds, “if it is not too forward of me to ask... I do consider us friends. Please call me Adoniram.”

   Her lips quirk upwards, if briefly. “An odd request.”

   Adoniram smiles a tad brighter, almost as if referencing to a joke she isn’t in on. “Plenty of people would be proud of being on a first-name basis with the oh-so-infamous Herald of Andraste. You’re helping make history.”

   The dream ends sooner than later, and the first thing she notices is the warm fire still crackling in its hearth near the foot of her borrowed (and noticeably stiff) bed.

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this on mobile because my laptop died and i got lazy so please let me know if something’s funky with the format or if i made a mistake!! i also may turn this into a series but this was just sort of a blurb i didn’t know what to do with lol


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